Mark had his arm around his mother’s neck, and
bending his face to hers, kissed her playfully as
he asked her the last question.

“Say, mother, are you willing I should marry
Helen Lennox?”

There was a struggle in Mrs. Banker’s heart,
and for a moment she felt jealous of the girl whom
she had guessed was dearer to her son than ever his
mother could be again, but she was a sensible woman.
She knew that it was natural for another and a stronger
love to come between her and her boy. She liked
Helen Lennox. She was willing to take her as a
daughter, and she said so at last, and listened half
amazed and half amused to the story which had in it
so much of Aunt Betsy Barlow, who had cleared away
his doubts, and who at that very moment was an occupant
of their best guest chamber, sitting with her bonnet
on, and waiting for her cap from the Bowery.

“Perhaps it was wrong to bring her home,”
he added, “but I did it to spare Helen.
I knew just what a savage Wilford would be if he found
her there, where she would be in the way. Say,
mother, was I wrong?”

He was not often wrong in his mother’s estimation,
and certainly he was not now, when he kissed her so
often, begging her to say he had done right.

Certainly he had. Mrs. Banker was very glad to
find him so thoughtful; few young men would do as
much, she said, and from feeling a little doubtful,
Mark came to look upon himself as a very nice young
man, who had done a most unselfish act, for of course
he had not been influenced by any desire to keep Aunt
Betsy from the people who would be present at the
dinner, neither had Helen been at all mixed up in the
affair.

It was all himself, and he began to whistle “Annie
Laurie” very complacently, thinking the while
what a clever fellow he was, and meditating other
dangerous acts toward the old lady overhead, standing
by the window, and wondering what the huge building
could be gleaming so white in the fading light.

“Looks as if it was made of stone cheena,”
she thought, just as Mrs. Banker appeared, her kind,
friendly manner making Aunt Betsy feel wholly at ease,
as she answered the lady’s questions or volunteered
remarks of her own.

Mrs. Banker had lived in the country, and had seen
just such women as Aunt Betsy Barlow, understanding
her intrinsic worth, and knowing how Helen Lennox,
though her niece, could still be refined and cultivated.
She could also understand how one educated as Wilford
Cameron had been would shrink from coming in contact
with her, and possibly be rude if she thrust herself
upon him. Mark did well to bring her here, she
thought, as she left the room to order the tea which
the tired woman so much needed. The satchel,
umbrella and capbox, with a note from Mattie, had
by this time arrived, and in her Sunday cap, with the